


what you preach

by halfaday



Series: rochan smooches [3]
Category: SF9 (Band)
Genre: Blood, Devil Kang Chanhee | Chani, Implied Sexual Content, Insanity, M/M, Religious Themes, Self-Harm, this is a literal descent into hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:54:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27079906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfaday/pseuds/halfaday
Summary: there's only one way to perfect it
Relationships: Kang Chanhee | Chani/Kim Seokwoo | Rowoon
Series: rochan smooches [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1479164
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	what you preach

**Author's Note:**

> this is fictional so no attacking me for this!
> 
> [spoilery list of cws](https://galatewoon.tumblr.com/practice). by clicking on this fic i hope that you've read the tags correctly. you should.  
> if you seek fluff at 3am: this is not it (and neither will it be at 3pm). but if you seek sanctitude at any time, this may be it…

chanhee calls it practice, sinking to his knees before he's even asked to, kneeling for minutes and minutes and minutes to the point his knees bruise and bleed when he gets up — linking his hands around his neck, and pulling him forward, towards him so he can kiss him — counting the beads so he can know how tight the rosary is around his neck, before he almost (never really) strangles him — whispering a  _ hail mary _ against his skin, and praying for redemption as he kisses every inch of his frail body — gazing at the skies as he cries out in pleasure, and saying god's name right before he yells chanhee's.

reading bits of the bible to know which pages to tear off and use for the fire — using his father's cross as a marker for the grave of the only cow who wouldn't run away, who's since then died of the strange fog that seems to linger around the house — taking down the statue of mary his parents had, and drowning the icon in the lake, weighting it down with rocks so it never shows up again — never saying god's name in vain again, and instead swearing by chanhee's.

he calls it practice, letting himself enjoy the tender touches upon the wounds his self-punishments leave — letting himself be licked clean, nursed into health with a tongue — kissing chanhee thank you, until he can no longer taste blood in his mouth, on his own tongue. kneeling before chanhee, and curling up into a ball — listening to his every word, and promising to obey him — thanking him for granting him wisdom, over and over again, and calling his name with reverence. washing his feet with what's left of the water in the farm, then of the lake — licking them clean when chanhee complains about the dirt residing in the natural waters, and kissing his toes as a way to tell he's done — rubbing at the floor with his nails, his palms, his tongue to make sure his feet do not get soiled again, and bowing when chanhee tells him he has done well.

He calls it practice, setting fire to what's left of the pens, and lying in them while they burn — dragging themselves to the lake, and finishing what they started in the water — laughing when it turns black, and whispering His name over and over again afterwards. eating dirt, then his clothes, because there is nothing else to feed on — biting down on His shoulder in-between two kisses because he misses meat — licking His blood to remember, and showing his appreciation with a hum, a languid kiss. opening all doors, all windows, for neighbours to see, and walking around just like he would in paradise — asking to be taken before witnesses, and laughing as a bypasser screams — hanging by the window, and staring up at the skies, seeing nothing but dark clouds, hearing nothing but the deep whispers of His Master.

he calls it practice: grabbing a knife, and leading Him to the cave — leaving a path of powder behind them, and commenting that it smells just like what he tastes on Chanhee's skin. cutting his wrist open as He traces a pentagram — lying in the middle of it — extending a hand to grab the rose he is handed, and inhaling its scent. watching orange arise, then a back retreat — being left alone, and closing his eyes to focus on what he wants more than anything — muttering His name, then repeating it over and over, like a mantra. like a prayer.

_ Chanhee, Chanhee, Chanhee, Chanhee. _

hand wrapped around his knife, rose in his mouth — stabbing himself again and again where it hurts most, feeling fire licking at his feet, his elbows, his body — screaming one name a thousand time — 

he calls it practice. and as he gasps for air, as he tastes his own blood — as he swallows the rose, and chokes on it — a finger tilts his chin up, and a voice whispers a  _ thank you _ — lips embrace his own, and take his very last breath for themselves.

practice ends, and his God lives again.


End file.
